3 is the lucky number
by LeiraStarofTheSea
Summary: A young American who chose to study abroad in Moscow's most elite university never expected to gain the interest of the Russian research medical tegnology devision. This woman is given the task of monitoring a strange man she knows little of. What will happen when that same man begins to change personalities, battling dreams and even himself. Curiosity might become her fall.


10 months.

I had been cooped underground in the freezing tundra of  
Russian civilization, as little more than a computer of information  
this so called branch desperately needed. I quickly learned that these  
Russians had one simple rule and firm of bribery.  
If you wished to not freeze, if you wished to eat, and to live, you  
would do what you were asked of, nothing more nothing less. And under  
no circumstances were you allowed to question your subjects.

I winced as I absentmindedly tab my finger over the long scar which began  
between my thumb and forefinger ending mid way up the side of my  
firearm. It was a constant reminder of what disobedience would lead  
you to. It was intended to just that. So no one would find the  
temptation to try to fool the men who guarded over us. The essentially  
prisoned geniuses they needed to fulfill their plans.  
Although the USSR had long been gone, there was no lack of communist  
leaders plotting to weasel their way into the presidency. Or so called.

From the conversations I had overheard spoken in Russian, and  
the men who often visited, I was beginning to get the awful feeling  
that this base was led by a high governing official. That someone was  
trying to create strain between us and the Russians and Americans. But only when the time was right. For now, we would develop in secret until America  
believed Russia to be a changed country. I was beginning to believe it  
had never changed at all. Only on documents and in the public eyes of  
the Americans.

It was on this day that they chose to bring him through my vaulted door. I hadn't received a  
proper patient in nearly 3 months now. Not until the guard roughly  
shoved him in, spitting in Russian at the tumbling broken excuse for a  
man.

"Zee director vants you to vatch it." He spat and seethed the Russian  
word for scum in his direction before curtly turning on his heel and  
leaving us, shutting the iron door with an immense thud. I winced in  
response.

It was uneasily silent except for the man's labored breath. I studied  
him, cautious of his potential. I had quickly learned that they tended  
to fight. These ones, were the broken ones. The ones who were  
defecting. The men who's minds were so tampered with that they  
resembled vegetables more than people. Psychotics which I was supposed  
to somehow magically fix. They were tools to them. A type of weapon  
which had malfunctioned and I was assigned to fix these weapons.

I let my eyes roam over him. His eyes were a shocking pale blue color  
that I would've been fighting from drowning in, had the look of  
confusion laced with a mixture of malice and vacancy had not been  
swirling around the depths. His skin was fair and his hair a deep  
shade of brunette, though it was horribly greasy and matted  
everywhere. His face held strong bone structure and very handsome, the  
type that with a good smile would cause any sane girl to  
become absolutely giddy at the sight. It was such a shame that it contorted in such a  
pained and unnatural expression. An expression of a lost but truly maddened  
puppy trying to find its way out of the cage.

I tilted my head in apprehension, there was something else there too. A wise and weathered  
appearance to it, as if the man inside this mechanical beast had seen  
things truly unspeakable. A wisdom that came by experience and horrors of things unspeakable.  
He seemed to register my presence as his icy eyes suddenly flickered  
to mine. I nearly gasped at the intensity. They were fully focused and  
determined not the lifeless dull blue I had witnessed simply minutes  
ago. His strong frame stiffened as if prepared for the worst.  
"What am I here for?" Was his abruptly rough question.

I composed myself from shock they normally were not this strong. They  
were normally, like ghosts. Lifeless. As I stared back into his eyes,  
I realized, this man was strong, he was more than met the eye.  
"To be fixed." I replied lightly yet professionally. His eyes seemed  
to narrow in weary apprehension.

"So that's it huh? They send me in here because they realize I'm not a  
mindless drone so you can do whatever it is that you do. Snip snip, a  
few drugs here and there and I'm completely back to the robot they  
want. Is that it?" His tone was so sharp it could cut glass.

I stared back into his unwavering eyes determined to not let this  
unusual man effect me. "Essentially, yes." I retorted sarcastically.

He pursed his lips in thought. "So tell me. What made you do it?" He abruptly  
asked taking a purposeful step forward. "Your obviously not, Russian.  
Sound American. What made you betray the country that made you who you are,  
for some scum bags like these?" His eyes and voice screamed with  
demand and accusal.

I stared right back, defiant as ever and suddenly feeling angry with  
his last assumptions. "You assume I chose my side. Who's to say I'm  
not like you?" I countered my voice tight.

His nostrils flared as he took yet another purposeful step in my  
direction. "Because you can't be over 18, at most. No American girl in  
their sane minds would be in any position which would have them at risk for  
Russians to snap them up." He scoffed as if the idea was ridiculous.

It was my turn to narrow my eyes in accusation. "Maybe in just  
stupid." I challenged.

He raised an incredulous eyebrow as an expression of surprise quickly  
flashed across his face momentarily. It was gone quicker than it had  
come. "You don't seem like the type of girl to do something that  
stupid."

I chose to break the intense staring competition we had began on.  
Instead I let my gaze flicker to the operation table, if the pathetic  
excuse for one could be called that, in the corner. "You should really  
stop assuming, soldier." I mocked.

This seemed to make him bristle. "Sergeant. I was a Sergeant." He corrected.  
I quickly turned my head to give him a quizzical look before returning  
my gaze to the table. "They call me Vracha Bol." I said tightly.

Silence followed. I cleared my throat. "We can do this the easy way,  
where you sit down and let me work. Or the hard way, where I get 15  
Russian prison guards to hold you down. Take your pick, Sarg." I  
mocked.

He hesitated for a moment before slowly moving to sit on the bench.  
I began to take out some basic equipment, the silence growing thick as  
his intense eyes burned a hole in the side of my head.  
"Doctor of pain." He mused.

I paused holding a scalpel before setting it down.  
"Oddly appropriate." This time his voice came out sounding sarcastic, to  
which I fought an eye roll.

He knew nothing. He was nothing, nothing  
but a pawn in the large game of chess the Russians were playing.

I turned back to begin my work but jerked in surprise. He had removed his shirt to fully show a bionic  
arm. I had been so engrossed in his intensely beautiful blue eyes, I  
had failed to notice it before. My eyes roamed over the very poorly built prosthetic. I quickly recovered  
and went about my task in silence.

Surprisingly, he sat patiently, albeit reluctant as I worked. Somehow,  
I had pictures him as the type to fight it with every breath.

I had sent him away nearly an hour later. I wouldn't see the man for another 3  
months. It would later seem that 3 was our lucky number, I would later  
laugh at the irony of it all.  
...


End file.
